


Pitching from Third

by carnivorousBelvedere, notwest, PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Bad Flirting, Baseball Idiots, Blow Jobs, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Sports, Uniforms, nice butts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-09 13:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/pseuds/carnivorousBelvedere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/pseuds/notwest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: Take me out to your hive block,take me up to your room;We don’t need pillows or sheets tonight,just a bucket that we’ll kick aside;For it’s fuck, fuck, fuck ‘til the morning,And you are screaming my name;For it’s one, two, three times you’ll come,And you’ll never walk the same!It's time for Karkat and Jake's baseball team to square off against Dirk and Dave's.Who's actually going to score?





	Pitching from Third

******== > [6AM] Dave: Keep Sleeping.**

Damn right you will.

Dirk’s alarm goes off one whole hour before yours, at an unreasonably prompt 6am. It doesn’t go off again. It’s Saturday. You roll over. It’s fucking Saturday.

You don't wake up when your alarm goes off the first time. Dirk is in the shower, if the deep rattle of the pipes and waterworks tells you anything. He’ll be in there for a while. You’re playing Karkat and Jake’s team today, and you’d be more inclined to feel sorry for him if he didn’t take so fucking long in there.

Not for the first time, you go back to sleep thinking about Vantas. Mm, Vantas.

You don’t wake up the second time your alarm goes off.

Or the third.

But you do wake right the fuck up when Dirk kicks your door in like he’s Elliot fucking Ness heading a raid and sprays you square in the face with one of those vintage seltzer water bottles. The old, glass and mesh kind. You’re not sure where he got it or where he was keeping it but he makes good use of it, draining the whole bottle across your face and chest. And bed. Yeah, your bed is adequately fucking drenched. Egbert would be proud, which means you hate it on principal. Except you know Egbert wouldn’t have just left it at just water. You’re lucky your bro is too far behind schedule to get prank crafty.

Your bro is a Hieronymus Bitch.

“Get dressed, we’re already going to be hella late.”

_Yes, your highness._

“You wanna repeat that?”

_No, your highness._

Apparently the bottle was not empty.

When you roll out of bed onto the floor, your wet sheets wrap around your torso like a soggy burrito, all but ruining your plans to just roll into the bathroom. Fine whatever. The tiles are cold as shit under your feet, so you floor-is-lava yourself over to the fuzzy mat in front of the sink, then hop to the one outside the shower door. The knobs in here are backwards, which means shit to anyone but yourself since Dirk would rather die of some strenuous disease than step foot in your bathroom. Which, in hindsight, is exactly what would happen if he did. You brush your teeth in the shower to save time and then spend twenty minutes with your forehead against the tile wall, hot water beating across your shoulders, to waste time.

Dirk is not impressed when you walk out topless. He says _he packed your shit into the car already since you’re so keen on dragging ass this morning._ He’s a little mumbly, talking low and fast like he always does when he’s sweating balls. Your brain supplies you with, _English balls._ You regret that thought immediately and yeah you’re just gonna go get your ugly ass uniform on and never say that out loud.  
  


**== > [6AM] Dirk: Intend to wake up early in an attempt to intercept the inevitable 85 minute panic attack shower breakdown so as to not be late.**

Not likely.  
  


**== > [7:25AM] Dirk: Be late anyway.**

Orange Slice, like most artificially Citrus sinensis flavored beverages, tastes absolutely disgusting after having just brushed your teeth. Hard to believe someone as smart as you didn’t see this coming at the first bubbly hiss of carbonated freshness. It’s not a mistake you usually make. Ever.

It would be a drastic understatement to say you’re a little distracted.

Packing up all your and Dave’s equipment takes a little Tetris style strategy, and the focus helps keep your mind from wandering to mischievously greener pastures. The car is small and your shit is copious. Per ritual, you keep your ball glove out and on you at all times.

Your pitiful plans for getting your mind off Jake fail miserably, however, much like your preemptive alarms, and you get caught up pacing in the yard waiting for Dave. Not being a completely oblivious ass, you keep your trainers on as to not butcher the grass with your cleats.

You pound your fist into the center of your ball glove and stress-walk until Dave comes out ready to go, finally. You want to bitch and moan and reprimand his sluggish asshole routine until you feel some shred of normalcy.

You say nothing.

Your glove sits comfortably in your lap as you pull out of the driveway, your spine doing a pretty apt impression of an ironing board. Dave offers to hold your glove but you turn him down immediately, slapping his hand away. He gives you a look from behind his shades that you feel more than see. You’re not sorry.

Nobody can touch your glove. It could ruin something, break your last delicate shred of control.

Nobody.

“Hey man, It’s just a game. Just like, barely even four hours.”

You grunt a response to him.

_It’s not the game you’re worried about. Not entirely._

He knows that.

“You know what they say bro, calm your horses n’ shit.”

He says it wrong on purpose, the little shit. There’s a tiny smile on his face.

It helps.

   
**== > [7AM] Karkat: Be dying.**

You wake up feeling like you’ve died.

It really is amazing, the lengths this universe will go to shit on you at every waking hour. Your chest aches like someone’s been beating on your lungs while you slept, nose stuffed up like some kind of disgusting Thanksgiving gobbler. You don’t remember what its real name is and you frankly just don’t give a single massive, whopping fuck.

Sucking in air through your dripping nose like a crack addict, you sniffle and heave your miserable carcass to the ablution block. It’s game day Vantas, time to get the fuck up for it.

The steam and spicy-sweet scented anatomic cleaning supplies help to break up the thick gelatinous muck clogging your diseased respiratory system. Sluggishly but thoroughly, you wash away the pink crust sticking to your eyes and nose. You would find this relentlessly disgusting if you weren’t busy shitting bricks over todays game.

You can’t afford to miss games, your idiotic team needs you to lead them into the righteous glory of a viciously won victory and you’re the only one fool enough to do it. They need you, so you power through the hardships of illness and fight the fuck on.

You pay close attention to washing your entire body. This is absolutely not because the slight chance of someone being close enough to you to appreciate it is in your near future. You are not doing this for Dave.

Fuck Dave.

You step out of the shower feeling no less wrecked, but a little more oxygenated. At least you can breath through your nose now without it being a painful, full body experience. You text Jake to say you’re ready. That gives you fifteen minutes to get dressed and grab your shitty gear, if you time it out.

Fifteen minutes was apparently a massive misjudgment on your part. English isn’t answering your texts and seems to have fucked off completely. Instead of assaulting his phone with more glaring grey, you drop the app and pull up Twitter.

His latest tweet is a regrettably tasteful selfie of him dressed for the game and holding Starbucks. It's captioned, “Pair of drawers for game day! Off to gather my little Nubber!”

Having survived a questionable number of absolutely grievous years of friendship with English has allowed you the capacity for translating his extraordinarily ridiculous vocabulary. That is to say he’s a fucking lunatic, but a lunatic you can predict.

You @ him to get his excessive ass in gear. You’re the captain, and captains aren’t late to games. They get there FIRST, and they leave LAST. They are a pillar of unyielding support, never wavering, the key asset to the uncompromising fidelity of the team. Also that if he calls you his ‘little Nubber” again you’re going to do some very unfortunate things to his smugged face. Yes, that is a combination of both ‘rugged’ and ‘smug,’ which you ARE, you heinous time wasting prick.

You try to hit send but Twitter tells you that you’ve exceeded the character limit and you need to chill the fuck out.

He responds with a painfully simple “LOL on my way chum ;)” and about five different emojis.

Jesus H. Dick, you hate your best friend.

Ten minutes and one near breakdown late, Jake pulls up in his Jeep because what the fuck else would he drive.

As you throw your ragged gear into the back seat you realize he has both windows unzipped and worse, he’s annoyingly happy to see you. He does hand you a coffee though.

“Morning, dearheart,” he says, handing you a hot starbucks cup with your name on it spelled wrong. He was smart to bring you this, he may have prevented his own execution with it. But then he ruins it by saying, “GET IN LOSER, we’re going to play baseball!!”

You can feel your synapses explode with anger.

“OKAY, NO. NO. YOU DON’T GET TO BE THIS SHIT EATINGLY GLEEFUL. FIRST OF ALL I WAKE UP DISEASED WITH THIS DISGUSTING HUMAN FLU, SINCE YOU FILTHY MAMMALS CAN’T SEEM TO NOT BE CONSTANTLY DYING OF SOME AIRBORNE ILLNESS OR ANOTHER. THEN I HAVE TO FIND YOU ON TWITTER? REALLY?? ANSWER YOUR FUCKING TEXTS, YOU CONCEITED HUNK OF SELF-SATISFIED HORSESHIT.”

He raises his finger and opens his mouth to speak, but you’re not done.

Oh, no.

“NOT DONE. THEN YOU PULL UP HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING WINDOWS DOWN?? HAVE YOU NEVER BEEN SICK IN YOUR ENTIRE PATHETICALLY HUMAN LIFE YOU ABHORRENT DOUCHE? ARE YOU JUST TEMPTING FATE, BECAUSE LET ME TELL YOU SHE IS A STRAIGHT UP ODIOUS BITCH THAT IS BUSY TRYING TO SLOWLY KILL ME THROUGH OINK FLU OR WHATEVER. ZIP YOUR FUCKING WINDOWS, JAKE.”

He lets you finish, then waits patiently for you to stop panting and wipe the spit from your chin.

“Aw Karkat, you’re all riled up about that Strider boy, aren’t you little buddy?”

You deflate like an air balloon shot through with the harpoon that is Jake’s surprising amount of intuition that you’ve never gotten used to.

“...Is it that obvious?”

He laughs instead of answering and turns the engine over.

Your phone pings with a twitter notification.

Dave Strider liked your response to Jake’s selfie. All three of them it took to get your point across.

You’re so fucked.  
 

**== > [8AM] Jake: Stretch.**

What a delightful day for a spot of baseball. A man's sport. There's nothing like the ol' toss and catch, the wind and slide, jump and scrape that really makes a lad feel like a true red-blooded American. The smell of leather and fresh grass, the hard earned slaps on the back from your fellow compatriots, what more could a man ask for?

You and Karkat are the first to arrive at the pitch. The canary yellow sun is surely and steadily dancing her way into the sky and a crisp September's wind happily takes up residence in your lungs. Even in the case of your sickly chum, you're plum positive that a dalliance with Mother Nature will be the perfect prescription.

You snap a stunning photo of the empty field and the rising sun in the backdrop and post it to Twitter with the caption, "Couldn't wish for fairer weather this spectacular morn! #victory"

In the locker room you don your uniform while watching Karkat draw up game plays and create the lineup for the day. The poor chap's so uptight about the impending arrival of the Strider gentlemen you think he's bound to bust right open! You can't say you relate. You are very much looking forward to meeting up with the Striders. Specifically, the inimitable Dirk Strider. He's always a sight for sore eyes—a long, lean line of grey and orange graced with a smile as shy as a darling fawn.

The rest of your team are finally showing face, so you and Karkat head out onto the field to limber up. He's yammering long strings of nonsense, his eyes flitting around nervously. You take a gander across the way. The opposing team is certainly present, but you don't see hide nor hair of either Strider boy.

"We're going to have to start the game late! I swear to every god, if those two glorified exhibits of human excrement fail to present both of their pitifully slim asses in the next few minutes I'm going to personally drive over to that shithole they call a hive and extricate the life forces from their respective bodies, until all that's left are calcified remains that I will then grind to a fine sugary dust and sprinkle on my morning fucking oats!"

You shake your head. Karkat's really got himself wound up tighter than a wicker basket on Easter Sunday. Maybe this will lighten his topcoat. "You're killin' me, smalls," you say with a grin.

He just turns and glares at you. "Do _not_ start with that shit."

"Hogwash! It's all about the game day spirit! And the Striders are on their way besides." You hold up your phone to show him Dave's most recent tweet—a tastily blurred selfie with the caption, "on the road yo #lifeisajourney".

" _Life is a journey,_ " Karkat grunts, "The only _journey_ that self-inflated douchebag will be taking is the one to the local emergencyblock when I shove my bat so far down his throat he shits wood chips!"

"Easy there, Nubbers, I'm not sure Dave would be too keen on having his rump manhandled like that! But fair is fair. You can do what you like to Dave as per our gentlemanly agreement, while I reserve dibs on the older Strider."

Karkat rolls his eyes. "You always do this!"

"I just don't know how to reach him! I've thrown bell, book and candle at the man and no bite." You sigh forlornly. "Tell me, how does one bait an uncapturable fish?"

"When are you going to get it through your underdeveloped, cartilaginous skull that he doesn't want you! I've seen corpses that are more reactive to stimulus than that idiot. Give up already, English. And for once, focus on the goddamn game!"

Your reply is cut short by the roar of a car squealing into the parking lot. It's an orange Ford Pinto and wouldn't you know it, sir Strider's signature ride.

You grin, despite Karkat's words. The game is afoot.  
 

**== > [8AM] Dirk: Watch Jake stretch.**

You are not watching Jake English stretch from across the field.  
 

**== > [8:30AM] Karkat: Fume.**

How hard is it to get to a predetermined location at a predetermined time! Those brain dead morons in their stupid, obnoxious sunglasses, arriving a fashionable forty fucking minutes late like they're troll Will and Jada Pinkett-Smith driving up to the Oscars!

You're not even warming up anymore. You cross your arms and watch them struggle to lug in their equipment, gleefully letting out a cackle as Dave trips over a dropped cleet and just barely catches himself from eating unadulterated shit.

You point and poke Jake. "Look at that fucker! He's unarguably the worst player I've ever had the misfortune of playing against. I've literally seen him playing with dirt before! And the way he chews that gum, I swear to God if it had even a fraction more structural integrity I would wrench open those insolent lips, tear it out of his mouth and wrap it lovingly around his neck!"

"Goodness. You can't really be in a tizzy at the man for chewing gum?"

Oh, you can. "Just fucking watch me."

Jake pulls out a bag of Big League Chew. You swear you will never understand gum, and why every variety of human will sit and chew on the same fetid piece like some moobeast for hours on end. Chalk it up to one of life's many, idiotic mysteries.

"I chew gum too, Karkat," Jake taunts. "You don't hate me."

"Cutting it real close, English." You look down at your watch and scowl.

"How about I sally over there and ask Dirk what time they'll be ready to get the game going?"

"Fine. But if he says anything other than _right the fuck now,_ feel free to stick both of those sausages you call middle fingers down his throat until he chokes, compliments of yours truly."

Jake mimes wiping the sweat off his forehead. "Boy. You sure can paint quite the mental image for a fellow." He laughs and runs off. God damn it.  
  


**== > [9AM] Dirk: Lose your fucking mind.**

You're in the dugout when you see him walking toward you—and you hate that there's no other word to describe it—fucking jauntily. Jake _this is American baseball, I'm going to wear skin-tight, bleached white uniform, wink at everyone who passes by and spit on the ground like they do in the movies_ English.

It would be impossible to be oblivious to his advances. The guy is like a forty ton tractor trailer passing you on the highway, if it was also flirting heavily and trying to butt its way into your lane.

So, maybe his smile does make your knees go weak. And maybe you have been shitting your pants a little bit about seeing him. This doesn't change the fact that getting involved with Jake English would be the worst possible course of action. You've had enough experiences with guys like Jake to know that behind the bluster there isn't much substance. He's the type of guy who won't so much as remember your name as you as soon as you're out of his line of sight. You might look like a shiny, new toy right now, but it wouldn't be long until you were streaked with dust, thrown up on a high shelf and forgotten about. And frankly speaking, fuck that noise.

Unfortunately, your body is never on the same page. And this is why your insides clench as you approach the entrance of the dugout to greet him. He flashes you a wide grin and leans against the doorframe. You grip your glove tighter.

"Howdy Dirk! You're looking a tad tense, what's got your bottom in a twist?"

"Uh, probably the fact that it's a quarter past nine and we still haven't started the game. You can tell Karkat we're ready, by the way."

"All in good time." He pulls a packet of Big League Chew out of his pocket. "Would you like some chewing gum? I find that a good workout of the jaw can be a favorable course of action in times of stress."

You bite your tongue. Does he even hear himself? Wait, what are you thinking. Of course he does.

"I also have this." He pulls out yet another pack of chewing gum. What the fuck. This one is called Quench.

"Because I'm always thirsty," he says, with a wiggle of his unconscionably thick eyebrows. Woof.

You've dealt with English enough to know that the easiest course of action would be to just take the gum. The faster he's out of the dugout, the faster the game will begin.

"I'll just take the first one."

"Wonderful choice." He pulls a giant fucking wad of the stuff out of the package and tries to hand it to you.

"Thanks, but we don't all possess the chewing facilities of a baby Woolly Mammoth."

You tear a tiny piece off of the wad and put it in your mouth, while also trying to open your mouth as little as possible. Meanwhile, Jake shoves the rest of the handful of gum in his mouth and starts to chew. Wow.

His eyes drift down to the glove in your hand and he whistles. "That's one lovely looking mitt." He looks back up at you so you're faced with his green eyed, small smile. "What I wouldn't do to get my fingers inside something like that."

Your brain goes haywire. There's no way he can't see the flush you feel creeping into your cheeks.

You flail for a response. "Actually, it gets pretty sweaty." _WHAT???_

"Well," he says, leaning toward you conspiratorially, "I don't mind a little sweat so long as it's good and earned."

You genuinely have no response to that. You just barely manage to keep your mouth from gaping, feeling the heat in your face rising higher still.

"I assume you're pitching today?" he asks, like nothing. You nod stiffly. His grin is unfaltering. "I'll be looking forward to the view from second base if you catch my drift."

He winks again, and then vanishes from the doorway.

Fuck.  
 

 **== > [9:30AM] Karkat: ** **Start the fucking game already.**

You successfully ignore Dave while warming up with a fellow teammate on the field, tossing a ball back and forth.

“Jesus Christ, can you throw that thing any slower? This isn’t the peewee league, does this thing look like a wiffle ball to you?” You punctuate your request by nailing the ball towards their chest. They catch it in their glove with a little recoil, hitting their body.

“I think I’m warmed up,” they say, and desert you on the field, running back to the dugout.

This is why you carry the team on your back. No one else is as dedicated as you are.

This team would fall apart without you.

You see the umpire approaching with Dirk in tow. Fucking finally. You jog over to the home plate to meet them for the coin toss.

Dirk stands across from you on the other side of home plate. You both make eye contact and nod.

That’s the look that says _I understand, this hurts me too_.

Yeah buddy.

You like Dirk, that guy Gets It. He knows what this game is about.

“Sup, Vantas. You understand how this shit works or do you need to flip the home plate over for instructions?”

“Greetings, Strider. Shit’s gonna get real today, we are going to drop upwards of ten points on your sorry, orange asses. Maybe if you spent more time practicing instead of pissing in the sink, your team would actually win sometime. Oh yeah, and this just in: fuck you.”

“Hey, instead of lecturing me on leadership why don’t you just flip the fucking coin.” Dirk looks a little antsy. You can’t even begin to imagine what steaming load of garbage Jake just unloaded on him.

You sigh and gesture at the umpire who holds out the coin.

“Heads or tails?” they say, waiting for you two to figure yourselves the fuck out.

“Heads for the Trouser Snakes,” you snarl, waiting to see if Dirk challenges you for it.

He just stares you right back down. You live for this. “Buttland Chuggers are always tails,” he says, not a crack in his expression.

The umpire nods and flips the coin while you two unwaveringly glare at each other.

“Tails,” the umpire announces. Motherfucker.

“Defense,” Dirk says.

Huh. Interesting. You’re still mad as hell for losing though. You shake Dirk’s hand with a death grip and stomp back to your dugout.

“TOUCHDOWN FOR THE CHUGGERS!” you hear Dave yell from the dugout as he gets the news. “Put me in Coach, just give me a chance! I know there’s a lot riding on this, but it’s all psychological. Got to stay in a positive frame of mind. Memorize the play book! Study the films!”

God, you hate him.  
 

**== > [9:30AM] Dave: Peep that stylo.**

Man does that troll have an arm. And an ass. He is making a point to stay turned away from you, really all to your benefit. God, you have got to talk to Dirk sometime about switching to white pants because that baby got _back_.

You indeed are hooked and cannot stop staring, and you only wish you could tempt Karkat to do the same.

Dirk called defense, so it’s time to get your catching gear on. Karkat fastidiously clean-up bats like Dirk does, so you thankfully have to endure only a few sub-par asses before his shows up in your field of view.

And until then, you know Karkat watches his batters like people watch their lemon trees for lemon-stealing whores, so that means you are at least guaranteed to be in his field of view.

This is all working out nicely.

You and Dirk worked out a series of pitcher-catcher hand signals ages ago. They are incredibly discreet and difficult for onlookers to determine the meaning of, every other team should really take notes.

As the first batter lines up you prepare your first signal: you touch a cross to the four corners of your torso, kiss your fingers through your mask, and point up at the sky.

This clearly means fastball. No one else saw it. Especially not the batter.

It honestly doesn’t matter that much; Dirk has what is essentially a perfect pitching record. He winds up and throws a fast ball that lands right into your glove. Strike. You haul it back to him while the batter lines up again.

“Spike!” you yell. The umpire grunts behind you.

Sigh, this is gonna get boring. You see Karkat preparing to come up to bat, practicing his swings right to the side and watching as Dirk strikes outs all his batters. You can see him grinding his teeth from here.

When you’re sure he’s looking, you toss Dirk another signal in between pitches: you take one of your free fingers and slide it in and out the hole of your glove. However, you make sure to look directly at Karkat as you do it.

He sees it, you know he does, because he immediately turns away from you.

Shit, the memories invade your mind like the Trojan horse, except the Trojan horse is actually a condom and it’s full of Karkat’s slurry.

...Too much? Nah.

The last game, you saw Karkat filing his claws to daggered tips during a break.

You knew in that moment that you had one job, and it was to end up with his bulge in one of your orifices (a word you picked up from him, thank you very much) and his claw marks in your skin.

You were pretty damn successful.

When he slipped away into the locker room during the fifth inning you followed him, sneaking in through the second entrance.

It honestly was just routine at that point.

You barely even remember what you said. It might have just been a, _Hey, hot stuff,_ before Karkat had his claws wrapped around your throat and your back shoved up against the lockers.

In those pants they could have seen your erection from Mars.

Wait, that’s not true; you’d walked in and said, “Sorry, had to get myself a serving of the Vantas pie before anyone else snuck in and took a slice.”

“Please stop talking or I’ll stuff something so far up your asshole I can make you talk with it,” he shot back.

“Baby is that a promise?”

He growled at you and you swear to god your dick jerked, and then he lunged.

He twisted you around once he got ahold of you, keeping a clawed hand on the back of your throat. You relented to him physically, but if he wanted to shut your mouth he was gonna have to try harder.

“Oh, Mr. Vantas, are we about to do the nasty down here? Let me have one of my hands back so I can clutch my pearls.”

He pressed down on your throat harder. That shit was like positive feedback for your dick.

He had you pinned. “Take off your pants, dicksauce.”

Is it possible for pants to move of their own accord? They sure might have.

It wasn’t long before you were grinding your fists into the locker while his bulge worked its way between your legs.

“This is what you fucking asked for,” he said, “Isn’t it?”

You couldn’t even manage a clever response, only a broken, “Yes—please, Karkat, _fuck_.”

If you were to have it your way, you’d order the Burger King Jelly Donut Special everyday like a drive-thru regular.

Aaaaand back to the game.

You do the finger in the hole signal until Karkat is looking away. You look back and see Dirk on the pitcher’s mound with his head in his hands. You watch his shoulders sink as he sighs heavily, so heavily you can literally see it from the distance, and he calls your first timeout.

“Hey Dave, you realize those hand signals are for your actual teammates, right?”

“Yep.”

He just watches you blankly, a slight frown on his face.

“We’re _supposed_ to throw in decoy signals c’mon man,” you defend.

Dirk looks exasperated.

“Yeah, okay I’ll stop.” You won’t stop.

He ends the time out and you jog back to the home plate, squatting down once more.

You proceed to do the entire Macarena.

Dirk responds with slitting one finger along his throat. Good, good.

He then does the hand jive from Grease. Now you’re really _jiving_ as team players.

You hear Karkat yelling from your side, “Is that the fucking hand jive from Grease?”

Dirk throws the ball, another strike. “Penalty!” You yell.

“You’re not even using the right terms you fuckface! Do you even play this sport?” Karkat snaps.

You just grin.

Oh boy, looks like Jake is actually up third.

 _Batter up_.  


**== > [12:30PM] Dirk: Don't look at his ass.**

Whose ass? You’re not even thinking about looking at any fine asses. There’s only one thing you see right now, and that is the two square feet of prime real estate between a batter’s belt and knees.

You’ve placed the ball straight into Dave’s waiting hands with nary a scratch each throw, three strikes. Out. Then another perfect, even set. Three strikes. Out. Cause and effect. Cause being what a fucking awesome hurler you are. Effect being the humiliating defeat of Karkat’s team.

You’re not throwing bullets yet, but any pitcher worth his glove knows a well placed pitch beats speed any day. The fact that you pitch like the only type of formal training you’ve received was watching Goofy’s How to Play Baseball has little to do with natural talent, and everything to do with lifting your foot over your head to destroy the opposing teams moral.

It’s all in the technique.

Dave knows that once you’ve busted out the showtunes it’s time to clean house. He lifts his hands and makes the Lone Ranger mask over his catchers mask over his sunglasses over his eyes.

Hi-ho Silver away.

You’re centered. Ready. The seams of the ball lay perfectly against your knuckles, tucked inside the confines of your glove. Your shoulders turn, you ready your stance to step into the throw.

Then Jake English steps up to the batter's box and your entire cool crumbles to your feet. He smacks dirt off the bottom of his shoe with his bat like you’re sure he’s seen in the movies. It’s terrible for every piece of equipment involved and is rendered completely pointless when he puts his foot directly back into the dirt.

He looks up and points over your head into the sky, smiling. Your stomach drops to the mound. You hope he can’t tell that you’re shitting enough bricks to build a house, hopefully one you can hide in until either this game is over or you die. Whichever comes first.

He takes a deep breath and, loud enough for everyone in the infield—which unfortunately includes you—to hear, still pointing, says, “I’m gonna knock the horsehide clean off this old apple!” His eyes drop down on you like ice down the back of your shirt.

“See you back at home base, ey Strider?” He winks and chews his gum slack jawed like he’s got a mouthful of cud. Dave signals something to you from below Jakes waist and your eyes snap down to catch the end of his signal. Your ears burn.

Jake lines up, twirling the bat in the air above his shoulder and. And wiggles his butt.

Like, he's really shakin’ it up there.

You close your eyes against the onslaught and go into your wind up. His grin and thighs are very distracting on the far edges of the strike zone.

Focus, Strider.

You’ve got a streak to keep. Jake is just another batter with a stick; the fact that he has one of the most devastating asses you’ve ever seen isn’t a factor here.

Dave feeds you the signal again—forefinger and thumb pinched together like he’s taking a hit.

Smoke ball. You’ve got it. No problem. Easy. You’ve got trickier shit up your sleeve than this.

You wind up like a goddamn windmill and point your toe due north in a full pirouette. Nobody has managed to touch this pitch yet.

It leaves your fingertips in a perfect beeline to Dave’s glove, the fastest and most precise point A to point B trajectory shit any lucky motherfucker on this field has ever seen.

Jake steps into his swing like he’s cutting down a redwood in one fell swoop.

He _clips it._

“BALL!” echoes through the air.

Your mind goes blank with horrific static.

_No._

The weight of your arms is just too much to bear, so you don't. You let them hang like wet noodles. Your glove falls off your hand and right into the dirt with a sad whomp.

_What the hell just happened?_

Your streak has been viciously thrown over the cliffs of complete and total embarrassment and dashed on the frigid craggy shore of wholesale humiliation. There is no god. Not that you ever thought there was one.

This just proves your point.

Jake looks distressed over what he has done, which is _wild._

He looks frantically from you to Dave, then back. He looks down at Dave again, who shrugs. Are they talking? Jake looks at you sadly, but determined, and strides out of the batter’s box. And right at you.

He’s approaching the mound. He’s approaching the mound?

He bends over and picks up your glove as he steps up to you, patting off the dirt into a dusty cloud. He coughs comically. You are very confused.

“That’s quite the canon you’ve got there! Bloody well almost missed that one!”

_Almost._

Are you talking? You’re not sure. The gall of this cock-sure fool is actually deafening. A part of you is breaking loose from your leaden despair, a fairly petty, angry part of you.

He’s smiling again as he drops one heavy hand onto your shoulder and pats you a few times, hard enough to necessitate you catching yourself from tipping forward into him.

“Your technique is quite the spectacle to watch, really is somethin!” He lifts your glove to his face, mouth above where your name is printed in perfect Helvetica across the dark, worn leather.

“I still have every intention of getting to second base, Strider.” He fires at your heart with a wink at point blank range and kisses the S on Strider. Heat floods your cheeks.

He hands you your glove and jogs back over to home, leaving you stunned and burning. Jake picks up his bat and turns back to you. He’s not done.

“That kind of talent makes a man want to bat for both teams!” He puts the bat over his shoulder and shares a fist bump with Dave, who awards Jake with a spoken _nice._

He steps back into the box. Your cheeks are still on fire. It’s not just embarrassment that’s burning you up though. Not even close.

He bends his knees and goes into this little batter’s up pop lock and drop.

The bastard blows you a kiss as you pull your arms into your windup.

It’s about time you gave Jake what he wanted.

You are going to annihilate his ass.


End file.
